Things Seen and Unseen
by Crinklybrownleaves
Summary: They might have taken the long way round, but she could do this. She could be the doctor's wife.
1. Chapter 1

It was late, the small hours of the morning, and a chilly one. The streets of Ballarat were deserted now, silent except for the sound of the motor.

Jean shivered in his jacket. Cold mostly, an undercurrent of longing anticipation, a wisp of fear. She could do this. She could be the doctor's wife.

The day had been near perfect: autumn sunshine, the joy of friends, her confidence and happiness. Dancing and the softest kiss, music, and the scent of him against her cheek. A hug from Charlie easing the pain she felt for those who were not there.

She sighed in relief as they approached the familiar streets near the house. Their house now. The smallest of smiles played on her lips, but he noticed, and rested his hand on her knee. The warmth through her skirt made her tremble a little, her breath catching as his thumb lazily stroked her leg.

He slowed the car, and glanced sideways, grinning at her as he depressed the clutch. Laughing, she grabbed the gear stick and pushed it into third; she had not done this since her teens, out for a spin with Christopher in his father's ute.

"Did you see Alice and Matthew leaving?" Jean asked. She raised an eyebrow and they chuckled together.

Matthew's attempt to be discreet and stay until the bride and groom had left had been thwarted by Alice. She had been completely oblivious to everything except the man next to her, who had suddenly shifted from friend to something closer in the space of one evening. She'd tugged gently at his elbow, whispered in his ear, and Jean had seen them heading for the cloakroom to retrieve their coats.

"They'll be good for each other," Lucien replied. "Good luck to them."

They drove slowly past darkened houses. Jean ruffled the edge of his beard with the back of her hand, Lucien slid his fingertips up under the satin hem of her dress, trailing on her warm thigh. To his surprise, she shifted her legs apart a little, and he heard her breath hitch again.

He braked, and grinned at her in the gloom as she worked the gear stick for him once more.

"Quite the expert driver, Mrs Blake," he teased her, but he sensed her withdraw from him. He had clearly touched a nerve. He moved his hand into safer territory.

"I'm out of practice," she murmured, "nearly thirty years."

After a silence she continued, "Christopher used to drive me home if I'd been out to his parents' farm. We'd go back the long way round, practising until we could do this without crashing the gears."

The long way round. She thought about the evenings parked under the cover of the trees on the back road, the tick of the engine cooling in the night air, and her straddling Christopher's lap, inexperienced fingers fumbling under clothes, hasty kisses and the heat of the moment...

Better not to think about that now, not on her second wedding night.

"I'm glad we've waited."

Lucien glanced at her curiously. He wouldn't ask, but not for the first time, he wondered about what sort of man Christopher had been. He turned in to the driveway and swallowed down his questions: not the moment for that.

xxxxxxxx

Jean woke, disorientated, just before dawn. She was curved, naked, tight against his bare back, her nose tucked into the crook of his neck, and her hand hung loosely across his belly. She lay and revelled in the warm smell of his skin, so familiar, but with the musky scent of sex now underlying it. No one could frown or disapprove now at her enjoying this closeness.

He was breathing slowly and deeply, and she found she did not want to wake him yet. Pressing her lips to the back of his neck, then drawing her mouth over the tiny curls there, she ghosted her hand over his belly and hip, regretting now that she had not taken the opportunity for a proper exploration earlier.

In the event, there had been no time. Standing in their new bedroom, Lucien had struggled to undo the tiny buttons on the back of her dress. He had kissed behind her ear tenderly as he started: each button slipped through the silk loops earned her a nip to the soft skin on her nape, or a nuzzle in her hair.

Her hat had been discarded on the hall table, pulled hastily free from the hairpins Rose had put in so carefully. The jacket they had shared had been cast off carelessly at the door to the studio, and his tie was tossed on the couch in front of the fireplace.

But those buttons were not so quickly dealt with. His hands had trembled with frustration and eagerness, the air filled with want, and by the time he had eased her dress away from her shoulders, all previous thoughts of going slowly and being gentle were forgotten.

Jean smiled to herself at the memory. A tender, deep kiss becoming frantic. Trying to pull off her stockings and bra whilst also attempting to unbutton Lucien's shirt. Falling laughing against the bed and rolling in together. The breathless tug in her belly as she felt his erection against her bare hip. The painful pleasure as he moved inside her, as she clung on to his back for dear life. The golden stars above their heads. Most of all the elation, crowning in a timeless, white-hot moment that had her thanking God she had made her choice.

Now in the semi-darkness she traced a fingertip over the scars on his back. She had expected them, knew he must have the marks of his captivity on him, but she was more moved than she expected by the silvery lines on his golden skin. In the coming days and weeks she would learn his body by heart, every mark and stripe, until it was as familiar to her as her own body.

She needed to use the bathroom, and a clean-up would not be out of place either. She had nothing to wrap round herself except her wedding dress, which lay too far away in an untidy heap on the floor. Naked, she padded as quietly as she could to their new bathroom, in the side room of what had been the studio.

The old chipped sink splashed with oil paint and splodges of clay had gone now, as had the stacks of old canvases and pots of hardened brushes, replaced by shining tiles and the smell of new paint. Jean considered the brand-new bath and was tempted, but running the water would wake Lucien, and he got little enough sleep as it was.

She settled for a cursory attempt with a wet towel, and then put on Lucien's Chinese dressing-gown, which was hanging on the back of the door. A faint waft of his scent surrounded her: soap and whisky and sweat. She fastened it tightly round her, pulling up the front for a moment to breathe him in.

Her feet were chilled, but she decided to light the fire rather than go straight back to bed. She crouched by the hearth, searching for the matches in the half-light, then struck one and lit the paper twists under the kindling. Leaning in, blowing on the tiny flames, she failed to hear Lucien's footsteps behind her.

His hands on her hips tugged Jean back against him, squealing, until she was sitting in his lap on the hearth rug. He kissed her shoulder through the silk.

"Stealing my clothes, now?" he asked, but as she started to explain, he laughed. "It looks much better on you. Keep it."

She settled her cheek against his, rubbing against his beard absent-mindedly, staring into the flames now catching on the logs. The glow from the fire highlighted the colour of his skin, and she turned in his lap for a closer inspection.

He was completely naked and more beautiful than she had expected. She had felt his solid arms and shoulders through his clothes before, but seeing him like this was startling. Flickering light moved over his chest, and Jean glanced down at his belly, at the only scar she had seen before tonight. Her chest contracted painfully at the memory. Life was so fragile and she must not lose him now.

Almost before she realised it, she had her lips against his chest. His skin was soft, unexpectedly smooth, with just a few light hairs. Her hand stroked circles on his belly, broader now after two years of proper meals and a fondness for her sponge cakes, and she felt a perverse pride in that handful of pliant flesh.

The rest of him was hard muscle and bone, as she continued to explore, digging her fingers into his hips, smoothing over his thighs, her thumb softly stroking the crease between belly and leg. She pushed him gently down and straddled his legs, hand on his breast bone and gaze everywhere. Trying to fix this man in her mind; hers now, and she his.

He watched her, half-smiling, content, in no hurry at all. His hands on her waist, he did not even take off her robe. Why would he rush, when they had all the time in the world now? If it weren't for the twitch of his arousal between them, she might have thought he were sated.

But when she leaned in for a kiss, he moaned deep into her mouth and tugged the tie of the robe loose. His tongue teased her lips as his hands sought out her breasts, feeling for her nipples with his thumbs while his palms slid over the softest skin, humming in delight.

She grinned against his mouth, raking her hands through his hair, then stroking his temples with her fingertips As their kisses deepened, each graze across her breasts sent shocks downward, and she shimmied against his pelvis.

They broke apart, panting, laughing, and he swept the dressing gown off her shoulders.

"You are so beautiful," he said, and in that moment she believed him.

"So you said," she replied, and the firelight glittered in her eyes.

The right time. And he lifted her up a little, trying to find a good angle; an awkward moment of newness, and Jean grasping him suddenly, stroking experimentally, guiding just there, both of them gasping, and then sighs of relief, amusement even, as Lucien buried himself deep inside her again.

And then a pause, breath gone, until he felt her relax around him. Hips jerking up into her, uncontrolled, then a fight to steady himself and go slowly.

At last, they found their way; delicate fingertips seeking, rolling, circling her clit. Soft wetness holding him tight, so every movement was blissful torture, and he was urging her on, trying to hold back.

In her heart something cracked, and she yielded. For so long she had made do with mere release, her own fingers knowing just where to go, how to move, her mind shying away from guilty longings for this man. Now she could let him please her, let him find sensations she had forgotten or never known. Now she could give him all of her, and she gave it freely.

A cascade of bright pleasure rolled slowly across her from the pulse between them, and she distantly heard herself call his name, unrestrained and joyous.

Her cry thrilled him. He had made Jean Beazley - no, Jean Blake - lose control, as she messily ground against him and collapsed. His pride was brief; soon he felt the familiar surge of warmth crown, and then the bliss and sense of loss that followed.

Jean lay across his chest as he softened inside her, and he wrapped his arms around her, stroking his hands down her back, murmuring soothing noises against her ear. Eventually he stirred.

"Jean, my darling. Should we be being more careful?"

She nuzzled into his neck, not wanting to think about that now.

"I was all prepared, and then...twice...we didn't," he continued, "and I don't know what you want."

Jean rolled off him and away.

"I'm cold again," she grumbled. "Let's get back into bed."

She avoided his gaze and any answers until they were lying spooned together with the blankets pulled up high.

"I don't know what I want," she said, eyes closed to shut out the dawn light. "It's probably too late anyway, even if neither of us have needed the pine bark yet." Her attempt to turn this into banter faltered. He had already heard the pain in her voice.

"Would you have liked a daughter, Jean? It may not be too late..." He felt her stiffen in his arms, and his heart sank. She didn't want this.

"I had a daughter, Lucien." Now it was her turn to feel him tense. "She was born too soon, too small. She was the reason Christopher and I got married in a hurry."

All the memories she had fought to keep away for years crowded back in. Pain, and fear, and too much blood, and finally a tiny girl, red-grey and limp, but perfect, filling her two cupped hands.

And then Christopher carrying her to the car, and then, much later, seeing the bloodstain on the wooden boards of the kitchen floor which would never quite scrub out; and if she were honest, Jean didn't want to scrub it out, because that was the only mark her daughter had left for others to see.

She rolled over to face Lucien, her hand on his chest. She was not ready to tell him everything yet, and for once he knew it was better not to speak.

"I don't know what I want," she repeated. She trailed her fingers down his cheek, running them through his beard. "I think I want to have whatever we're given, whether that's each other, or a baby as well."

He nodded, and kissed her cheek gently.

"We've a honeymoon to start to find out," he whispered against her hair, into the loose curls beside her ear, and he pulled her closer in.


	2. Chapter 2

**I hadnt expected to write another chapter of this, but there you go.**

xxxxxxx

Standing high above the dockside, the scene below seemed unreal. Tiny figures rushed to and fro: porters pushing trolleys laden down with suitcases, latecomers hurrying towards the gangplank, relatives clutching hands and handkerchiefs, come to see off loved-ones, maybe forever.

Jean leaned her head against Lucien's shoulder as they stood at the rail. His hand slipped from her waist to her hip and she smiled, guessing the direction of his thoughts. She was beginning to sense her power over him, but he had always been the reckless one, and she was reminded of riding a too-strong horse on her father's farm, exhilarating but dangerous.

This was her new life, and she wondered if she had been seeking it out since those days on the farm.

There was no one for them on the quayside. The people they loved were scattered across the world. Jean waved anyway as the ship eased away from the dock, and Lucien lifted his hand, following her lead.

"Four months, just for us." He sounded relieved, as though he hadn't quite believed this would happen. She nodded, smiled, and swallowed nervously. Four months: long enough for him to think better of marrying his housekeeper - the doubt that kept intruding, however much she pushed it down. She had looked forward to this for so long, but it was also daunting.

Her first sight of their cabin was not reassuring. Polished wood and luxurious fabrics had her doing sums in her head. She did his accounts; he had dug deep for this. They may travel again, but it would surely never be like this a second time.

Turning to the familiar, she started to unpack their suitcases. The rhythm of domestic life soothed her. This was what grounded her. She smoothed down the sleeve of his dinner jacket, hanging it in the wardrobe beside his shirts.

Reaching for her own case, she unfolded the new blouses, skirts, and evening dresses, unworn till now, her costume for a new role.

She had felt Lucien's eyes on her, following her steps around the room with his gaze, watching her familiar dance, and free now to openly admire the curve of her bottom as she bent over. So she was not surprised to feel his hands on her back, stroking gently down her spine.

He slid his arm around her, holding her to him, and she smiled indulgently as she relaxed back against him; such a simple pleasure they had denied themselves for so long, too long perhaps.

Lucien nipped gently at her earlobe, nuzzling in her hair, breathing in the perfume of soap and skin, and something more intimate: a scent only captured when he pressed close against her. Three days married and it was already familiar, part of him.

She shifted against him as he slid his hand up to her breast. She couldn't help the smile; how had this become so natural to them so quickly?

Lucien's gaze fell onto the suitcase on the bed.

"What's this?" he asked, teasing. He lifted the nightdress out and held it up by the straps.

"I bought it for our wedding night," Jean coloured slightly, despite herself, "but I never got round to putting it on."

"Show me," he murmured in her ear. "Let me see."

She turned in his arms and kissed his cheek, one hand on the back of his neck.

"There's no time," she whispered. "We have to get ready for dinner."

Despite saying this she began kissing his beard, ruffling it with her nose, stroking and rubbing its roughness against her face. The tug in her belly made her press closer, pushing her hips against him.

Teasing her fingers down his neck, she kissed his mouth, nipping at his lip, then turned and headed for the bathroom, to get ready.

The evening was a a succession of new experiences. The food and wine were delicious but unfamiliar, the French menu reminding Jean of Henry's ill-fated bistro. But the art on the walls was finer, and the large dining room was filled with tinkling glasses and the sound of a piano playing in the corner.

Jean glanced nervously down at her dress. Lucien touched her hand in reassurance.

"You look beautiful."

She flashed a smile at him but huffed a sigh.

"Come on, let's dance," he said decisively.

Grasping her hand, he led her to the dance floor. Once he had his hand splayed across her back she could breathe again. Now, they could almost be at home with the gramophone, swaying together, moving ever closer, until she felt him hard against her belly.

His lips brushed her cheek, then her forehead, and she felt a warmth spread across her face and neck.

Lucien kissed her mouth, soft yet insistent, his beard scraping her lip and chin, but she didn't care. She could taste the wine on his tongue, but it wasn't that that was making her feel light-headed. She gasped a little as she pulled away.

"We can't do this here!" she whispered emphatically, frowning. His only reply was to kiss her again. By now they had stopped dancing; leaning together they continued to move, but to an internal tune. Lucien's fingers played up her back, sliding over the blue silk and down to her bottom. As Jean nipped gently at his lower lip, he hitched her up and closer, hands grasping at her, until she was on tiptoe.

"Do you want any dessert?" His breath was warm against her ear.

She shook her head.

xxxxxx

His dreams had started like this. Since they had come home from Adelaide, he had found his nightmares coming less frequently, replaced some nights by heated imaginings of Jean spread across his bed, hair mussed and wild, and delicate lace or satin peaking across her breasts.

And so she lay now, real, and here, and his. Eyes half-closed, a small smile of anticipation on her lips, and arms wide open for him. He watched her, mesmerised; the ivory fabric and her pinker skin, dotted with freckles which his fingers itched to trace; bright polish on fingers and toes standing out in the dim light; the shadow of dark curls at the apex of her thighs, glimpsed through the translucent nightdress.

He was beginning to learn her responses, how she arched against him when he brushed her breast with his thumb, how she moaned low and needy when he kissed along her collarbone, how she gasped when his lips closed firmly around her nipple, his tongue flicking through the soft fabric.

He slipped his fingers between her folds, so soft and slick, and his erection jerked against her thigh.

She gripped his shoulders, squeezing at the muscle, holding on for steadiness, then slid her hands down to his flanks. She liked that better, pulling him tight against her. Was it really right to want him this much? His growl and increased urgency pleased her, and her legs opened wider in invitation. He pressed nearer, nudging against her, tantalisingly close, a heavy pleasure at her entrance.

And then he slid home, making a deep moan against her neck that she thought might be the loveliest sound she had ever heard.

Silk chiffon slid against her skin, smoothing where his fingers left trails. The soft fabric bunched between them as he pushed it up.

She curled her fingers in his hair, scraping against the nape of his neck.

With each deep thrust she caught her breath, and as she pressed her hips against him, each caress on her skin was like heat. His warmth over her, around her, inside her, soothed her lingering doubts. They were married now; there were no more barriers.

Lucien rolled them over so she was on top, and tugged off the nightdress.

"It's pretty, but you're lovelier." His eyes sparked with unshed tears.

He ran his palms down her sides, then around her bottom, kneading her soft flesh gently. Jean planted her hands firmly on his chest and they started to move together. The slow cadence of the boat was steadily overtaken by the faster rhythm she now danced to.

She traced light circles on his body, spiralling the darker nipples on his tanned skin, and he pushed up harder inside her in reply.

His thumb grazed against her clit, gently coaxing her higher and higher until she could not think, could not stop the unfamiliar sounds she was making, her tongue loosened by joy and power and the freedom to love him any way she wanted.

Her release came suddenly, fracturing the white burst of light into sharp glittering pieces behind her eyelids, and he caught her as she fell against him. When at last she opened her eyes, he grinned, cupping her cheek and pressing brief kisses to her face.

She sighed contentedly, sprawled across his chest. Just as she realised he was still hard inside her, he rolled them both over again and took up her rhythm, pressing into her and rocking his pelvis against her.

A jolt of fresh arousal shocked her and she wrapped her arms tight around his chest, and her legs around his middle. She wanted something more, something she had just caught a glimpse of and now wanted to have for herself.

Lucien's breath was ragged now, his eyes screwed shut, drifting away from her on a flood of sensation.

"Lucien..." she almost sobbed his name, and he slid a hand between them, teasing out new desire from her. He kissed her, hard. His tongue demanded entrance and then his teeth worked at her lip. Then a gasp, a shudder beneath him, and a slow pulsing stream of pleasure overwhelmed her, spreading through her quivering limbs, longer and sweeter than the first time, and with a new sense of peace.

This time he followed her, letting himself feel the way she gripped him tightly, refusing to let him slip away from her, and he collapsed onto her with a half-muffled groan against her shoulder.

He tried to lift himself off her, but had to settle for falling ungracefully onto the bed, breathless and clumsy. He smoothed a damp strand of hair back from her face.

"My darling..." he rumbled, satisfied.

Jean grinned. "We're making up for lost time." And then, with a glance sideways at him, "I didn't know it could happen twice like that."

He raised an eyebrow. His thoughts about Christopher were less than generous.

"Women are luckier than men in that regard," he said, using his doctor's voice and making her giggle. He privately thought there might be other things she had missed out on that he could teach her. The prospect was cheering.

He ran his hand down her bare back, lazily smoothing along her spine.

"We waited so long for this," he said.

"We almost didn't," she replied quietly. "I made up my mind to go to bed with you one evening, I even put that nightdress on," she gestured towards it where it lay discarded on the floor, "but...well, anyway, I didn't."

The shock of this was like a blow to the stomach. All those months he had held back out of fear of offending her.

"What changed your mind?"

"Guilt, mostly, and Rose." She explained how she had met Rose on the landing.

"Knitting? Good God, woman, she won't have believed that for a moment!" He chuckled at the thought.

"I know!" She laughed with him. Her knee was still entwined between his legs.

He wrapped his arm around her a little tighter.

"No need for any guilt now, though," he murmured.

Jean nodded her agreement and curled in a little closer with a satisfied grumble.


	3. Chapter 3

**After the longest gap known to womankind, finally a third chapter. There's more to come, and I'll try to get on with it a bit more quickly! Many thanks to the usual suspects for their thoughts and advice.**

It may have been the quiet that woke him. Lying spooned in the warmth against Jean, new daylight trickling through the gap in the curtains, he didn't notice it for a while, so intent was he on matching his breathing to hers. He loved to watch her sleep, a new-found pleasure.

Eventually he realised what was different. The engines had stopped, and against the gentle slap of water against the side of the ship, he could just make out the shouts of men at work and the squawking of seagulls looking for breakfast.

Adelaide. Even the name of the city made him smile. After three days at sea, it would be good to step off the ship, and he had plans for the day.

The sun was beginning to heat the pavement to shimmering as they stepped out of the taxi. Lucien paid the driver and turned to Jean, anticipating her reaction.

"You remembered!" She smiled slowly, first at him, and then at the memory.

"Of course." It seemed a lifetime ago they had been here last, back when they thought they knew how their lives would unfold.

Then, they had strolled through the Botanic Garden on just their second day in the city, Jean pushing Amelia in her pram, and Lucien running through the possibilities in his mind. Should he take one of her hands from the pram-handle? Or loop his arm around her waist? He had wanted to kiss her, but would that be too forward in public? He hadn't known.

In the end he had let his hand trail over the small of her back, tentatively moving them on, tugging her a little closer as his hand went to her hip. And once Amelia was asleep they had settled on a bench, in the shade of a huge fig tree, and he had asked to court her, with the old-fashioned manners she suspected he'd got from his father.

 _Hadn't they been courting since the day he walked back into his father's house?_ she had been tempted to ask, but of course she hadn't. She'd nodded, and smiled, and patted his hand and changed the subject. So much had been left unsaid.

Now she linked her arm through his and they set off, taking their time, not quite searching for their bench but knowing when they had found it. They sat by unspoken agreement.

"I should have asked you to marry me that day," he said. "We could have got a special licence and gone home married, and to hell with the gossips." His arm around her shoulder shook a little with old anger.

"Lucien," she soothed him, "it would never have worked. You would still have had to choose between us later when Mei Lin arrived." She leaned into him more. "And think of what the gossips would have said then - Dr Blake the bigamist!"

"There was no choice to make, Jean. I knew that as soon as she arrived, but how to manage it all? That I didn't know, and I'm sorry," He paused to kiss her temple. "My darling."

For once she didn't brush away his apology, or the endearment.

xxxxxxx

They walked on through the heat of the autumn afternoon, Lucien pointing out some of the sights of the city, which Jean had missed the last time, spending as much time as she had caring for Amelia.

As the day began to cool, they reached the army quarters where Christopher and Ruby had lived, several neat rows of small houses, across the road from the army base. No one did more than glance at the respectable middle-aged couple walking arm in arm along the street, even when Lucien suddenly caught her round the waist and pulled her into a kiss.

Smiling, he leaned back against the lamp post where he had stopped.

"I think this was where I first kissed you," he said, with a hint of a question in his voice.

Jean nodded, as she remembered that chilly evening walk back to the house after their first ever dinner out together. Her best shoes had rubbed at her heel, and the wine they had drunk had made her a little light headed, but Lucien's arm had steadied her.

"If you can call this a kiss," she retorted, giving him a brief peck on the lips, much as he had that night.

She laughed, grabbed his hand, and headed towards Christopher's old house. No one seemed to be living there now; the curtains were drawn and the patch of front garden was overgrown. Jean cupped her hands against the small glass panel in the front door and peered in. The hallway was bare and the floorboards were covered in fine dust.

Grinning at this discovery, she dived down the side of the house, leading him away from the street.

"You did better here," Jean said, coming to a halt just beside the back door.

She smoothed his beard with her palm and kissed him with more enthusiasm, her memory reaching for the feelings she had had that evening. It had been his last night in Adelaide, and he had come for dinner at the house; a slightly awkward affair, with Amelia fussing in Ruby's arms and Christopher unsure what to say to Lucien. Jean had kept glancing over at Lucien, anxious for him to make a good impression, careful to steer the conversation away from any points of disagreement.

With the meal over and the dishes cleared, Jean and Lucien had slipped out into the garden, out of earshot of the younger couple, and they had stood in this spot by the door, in the darkness, while he attempted to reassure her that he would be back for a weekend very soon, and she tried not to feel disappointed that so little had been resolved between them. A few walks in the park, a meal in his hotel...but she could surely never go back to Ballarat as his housekeeper again. How did he think they could court when they lived in distant cities?

He had leaned in for the now-expected goodnight kiss, and she had shocked him a little, she knew, by her response.

"I'm not made of glass, Lucien." She had kissed him back defiantly, eyes sparking at him. Her tongue darted out along his lip, the air between them shifting. Before she knew it, he had her pressed against the wall of the tiny house, one hand in her hair and the other on her hip, hitching her closer. More than fifteen years since she had been kissed like this; his lips soft and delicate against her neck and face, yet the sensation of his body pressed hard against her had been overwhelming.

In those few minutes in the garden she had rediscovered the power of intimacy. Enclosed between the cold, rough brickwork behind her and the warm muscular body in front of her, she had opened herself up to the rush of emotions. His tongue had slid against hers and her fingers had gripped into his sides, holding tight to handfuls of his shirt and waistcoat. She remembered her snatched breaths against his skin, her belly tugging urgently, as her body responded faster than her thoughts. His breath hot against her ear, her neck, and down to her collarbone, while his hand caressed from hip to thigh.

Now, months later, they stood in the late afternoon sunshine kissing more leisurely; unhurriedly and tenderly. They had a lifetime more to learn together. Lucien's hand had just strayed towards her breast, shaping his hand to its curve, when the clatter of shoes and a loud cough broke in.

Tugging his waistcoat hastily straight, Lucien turned to see a grey-haired woman, with a laundry basket on one considerable hip, leaning against the garden fence. She frowned at his loosened tie and sniffed.

"Excuse me," she said, in a tone that made it clear she didn't think she was the one who should be apologising.

Lucien stepped forward, charm firmly fixed in place. Jean meanwhile tried to straighten her skirt and pat down her hair. Her lipstick was probably beyond redemption.

"Ah, yes...Mrs...?" He extended his hand warmly.

"Mrs Bennett," she replied, unbending slightly.

"Mrs Bennett. I'm sorry for the intrusion. I'm Doctor Lucien Blake and this is Mrs Beazley." He drew Jean forward a little, aware that her eyes had turned steely, but completely failing to realise why.

He ploughed on, regardless. "We remembered the house from when Christopher and Ruby lived here. We were just curious." His smile was turned full beam on Mrs Bennett but her frown seemed to have deepened.

"Right. Well, we must be going." He sounded less confident now.

"Yes. I think you should." Mrs Bennett gave them both a look of deep disapproval and strutted away towards her back door. She had clearly changed her mind about hanging out the washing.

They walked back towards the ship in near silence. When a suitable bus appeared at the end of the street they broke into a trot to catch it, Lucien paid the fare and they slid onto a red leather bench seat together. He draped his arm around Jean's shoulder but she shrugged him off.

"Mrs Beazley?" she whispered, outraged but trying to keep her voice low. "Have you forgotten already that we got married last week?"

"Did I call you...?" His heart sank. Yes, he had. "I'm sorry." He looked so crestfallen it was quite hard to stay cross with him.

"Honestly, Lucien, to forget at a moment like that!" She frowned but he caught the hint of a smile following it.

"I am sorry Jean, it was just a slip of the tongue." His arm crept back around her shoulders. She let her head fall against him, tired. Her life had changed so radically in becoming Mrs Blake, but really she wondered, did he realise his would have to change too?

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dusk was falling by the time they were back on the ship, and then they had to wash and change into evening clothes, and go to dinner. It was nearly midnight when they finally returned to their cabin, by which time Lucien's bow tie was hanging undone and Jean was carrying her shoes in her hand.

Perhaps they were a little weary. Lucien took her shoes and dropped them beside the bed.

"You should go to bed," he said.

Jean went to look out of the window, but the sea and sky were inky black.

"So should you," she replied.

He did not reply immediately, but Jean saw him glance involuntarily towards the chest of drawers where he kept a bottle of whisky he thought she did not know about..

"If you need a drink, you'd better have one." Her voice was harsher than she had intended, and she saw him flinch.

For years he had scarcely ever fallen asleep sober. In the last few days he had had no trouble drifting into sleep in the afterglow, with Jean's arms around him, but he needed to know the bottle was there.

He smiled resolutely. "I need you far more than any whisky," he replied. He meant to sound light-hearted, but the words came out needy. She offered her hand and he came and stood behind her at the window.

"Then come to bed with me," she murmured. He wrapped his arms around her middle and breathed in the scent of her hair.

Lucien kissed the mark on the back of her neck, not sure whether he should feel ashamed that he had marked her. He was fairly certain she hadn't noticed the bruise from yesterday, but that soft skin where her shoulder met her neck was one of his favourite places. Guaranteed to make her lean closer in or groan, and he couldn't resist it.

Jean turned around in his arms and set to unbuttoning his cuffs and tugging his shirt out from his trousers. His dinner jacket was shucked off rapidly.

There was something irresistible about the determined way she undressed him: all that pent-up enthusiasm suddenly given freedom. But he wasn't going to be left behind. By the time she hooked her thumbs into the waist of his shorts, he had unzipped her gown and let it fall to the floor.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, holding her gaze. He wanted to take his time. She smiled as his eyes darkened, then gasped out a laugh as he lifted her and laid her on the bed.

He kissed her gently, languidly, letting his tongue slide so smoothly that she slowed with him. Her eager nipping on his lip became a leisurely exploration. He slid between her thighs and she raised her knees, welcoming his weight on her and skimming her hands along his flanks.

Jean noticed details she had missed in her previous eagerness: the flexing muscles of his back as he dipped down to kiss her more deeply; the strength of his thighs cradled between hers; and the soft prickle of his beard against her neck as he nuzzled against her.

He slid down the bed a little, kissing down her neck and across her chest, seeking out first one nipple, then the other, and he smiled against her skin to hear her groan in relief. He suckled gently, and his beard brushed her skin to pinkness. He swirled his tongue slowly around, flicking across each nipple until it puckered against his lips.

Jean squeezed at his shoulders, holding him against her, then tugging at his biceps to get him to kiss her mouth again. He obliged, gathering her in his arms while he worked his tongue tenderly against hers, deepening the connection until she wrapped her legs around his middle.

He rocked against her and she rolled her hips in response, the friction driving her to distraction. Her whimper made him pause for long enough to pull away from her and slide her underwear off, discarding it on the floor.

Then his taut length pressed against her. Slick curls rubbed softly against him as she opened her legs still further. He slipped inside her, just a little, and so naturally it hardly seemed deliberate. Jean writhed, urging him in further, but he had other ideas, and with an effort he rolled away from her. He nuzzled between her breasts, breathing in the scent of her damp skin, and ignored her whine at the loss of closer contact.

"Trust me," he murmured indistinctly as he nosed under her breast.

She gave him a sharp glance, but steadied herself. If he wanted to go slowly, she could do that too. He spiralled each nipple with his tongue again, noting the hitch in her breath. He slid further down, repeating the slow circles, but around her belly button this time.

In no hurry at all, he worked his lips down the smooth skin of her belly, then planted a kiss on the curls right between her legs. She gasped, flinching away as he had half-expected. Murmuring soothing noises, he smoothed his hands over her thighs, stroking away her uncertainty.

She knew couples did this, of course she did. She had overheard enough whispered conversations among her women friends over the years, but Christopher had never suggested this, and she had never known how to ask him to try.

Now she glanced down, catching Lucien's steady gaze. His look asked the question, and she nodded, though her teeth worked worriedly at her lip.

"Nice and slow," he whispered, to himself as much as to Jean, and turned back to his task.

He gently ran his hands from her knees, moving upwards, his thumbs swirling a pattern on her skin. He followed with his lips, tiny kisses on one inner thigh, then the other, smiling against her soft flesh as he felt her start to relax. Easing her legs further apart, he touched his tongue to her folds.

She sighed. His touch was so light she wasn't sure if she'd imagined it. The next pass of his tongue was firmer, and a shiver of arousal slid up her body. A swirl mimicked his movement on her breasts, but Jean quickly realised this was like nothing she had felt before.

He seemed to know when she needed him to nuzzle gently, exploring delicately with his lips and tongue, soothing away her lingering doubts. Then as the first groan escaped her, he led her further on, flicking with his tongue and brushing his beard firmly on her tender flesh.

She acknowledged to herself with her last coherent thoughts that this was a more binding intimacy than anything she had experienced before, and the pleasure clearer, as if outlined in sharper colours.

She searched frantically for something to hold on to, to keep her anchored in the storm that was approaching, but could only find his hair. She grasped his sandy curls hard, holding him tight against her centre, and his lips closed firmly round her clit.

She was beyond thought or articulation now, her hips jerking against his mouth as she gasped his name. Her legs quivered and shook as he slid two fingers inside her. Jean suddenly gripped his other hand from its place on her belly, and her voice rose higher as his strong fingers stroked deep.

He hummed his pleasure against her, and she surrendered to the flood of joy that pulsed across her, unfurling and spreading from where his fingertips were buried within her. As the warm waves receded he withdrew his fingers and slid inside her, catching the last flutters of her release.

She grinned up at him, running her thumb along his swollen lips and wiping away some of the stickiness from his beard. His measured thrusts became deeper and harder; finally he grasped the headboard, eyes screwed closed with effort, and Jean held him tight inside.

As his groans turned to a roar, she turned her fingernails into his back, scraping down his spine over the scar-ridges, and his remembered pain transformed into a surge of joy. He shuddered over her and fell, covering Jean completely for a moment, before he rolled away.

She stroked the middle of his chest, playing with the sparse blond hairs there. He smoothed her jumbled curls against the pillow.

"You'll sleep well now," she whispered in satisfaction, and kissed the tip of his nose. Her eyes were already drooping with exhaustion as she snuggled against his shoulder.

"Of course," he murmured, but he knew it was not true. He lay in the darkness, holding her while she slept, while the whisky bottle and its oblivion called to him from across the room.

As dawn broke he finally dozed fitfully.


End file.
